


The Shadows of the Everyday

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [211]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Boss/Employee Relationship, M/M, Pining while fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 03:44:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17113826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Sleeping with your boss is never a good idea.





	The Shadows of the Everyday

**Author's Note:**

> A tangent inspired by the previous fic.

Sleeping with your boss is never a good idea, never. Steve knows it. He’s been there before. It was different, though, then; the world was at war, civilization on the edge of a shatter, so when his commanding officer had given him the eye somewhere in  _ Regime du Vichy, _ well, who was he to turn down what might have been his last chance?

This thing with Tony is something else entirely. The first time might’ve been frantic--an after-hours argument gone wrong and then suddenly, shockingly right--but ever since, it’s been deliberate, an open if undiscussed choice on both of their parts; maybe that’s what makes it feels so good and so very, very unwise.

It’s not like either of them is married. God forbid. Tony was, once, to some British dame he met in the clandestine service, but he never talks about her, not even her name. Steve’s seen her picture--he’s been through every scrap in Tony’s office, his desk, his briefcase, and beyond--and she’s pretty: dark hair and dark eyes, a gaze that’s square on to the camera, legs that go on and on. If Steve were inclined towards women, he could see the appeal, easy. He wonders what made it go bad.

And Steve, he doesn’t even have a steady these days, not since things went sideways with Bucky, and that’s been, what, almost five years?

So maybe it’s not so surprising that he’d gone for Tony that first time, that he’d let go of good sense and drowned his hands in Tony's skin instead.

They’d done it with Tony’s office door open, they’d been so out of it, so focused on each other, so angry, so needy, so loud. Anybody could’ve walked by and heard them through the thin glass and wood door that separated the waiting room from the hall. Sure, it was ten o’clock at night and the whole place was empty but still, Steve had thought after, still, they’d taken a hell of a risk, coming hard in the other’s fist, kissing and groaning and still cursing a little as they panted their way back to sense.

“Mr. Rogers,” Tony had said the next morning, strolling in just after nine.

“Mr. Stark,” Steve had said with a nod, his fingers on the typewriter not breaking pace. “Coffee’s on your desk. Your first appointment’s at 9:30.”

Normal stuff. All routine. As if the previous night had all been a dream.

Life went on.

Until one afternoon a few months later when it was hot as hell, the summer heat rising in big, sticky waves from the street. Tony’s office had a window, Tony was fine, but Steve had only a sad fan for company, a metal thing that rattled a lot more than it blew.

“You should work in here,” Tony said, his head stuck around the doorframe. “Really. Bring something that’s portable. You look like you’re about to melt through the floor. And why the hell are you wearing your damn jacket?”

“It’s my job to look presentable.”

“No, it’s your job not to die of heatstroke.” Tony waved his hand around. “Take that thing off and get in here.”

He’d gotten up, weary. Peeled off his coat and dragged himself to the window, bent over and out, drunk some air in, then turned back to see his boss staring, staring, those brown eyes deep and impossibly wide.

“Jesus, Steve,” he said like he’d smoked through a soft pack. “Forgive me for looking, but Christ.”

And just like that, that night was right back in the room with them--the noises Tony had made when Steve touched him, the way his skin had smelled of lavender and good whiskey, the way he’d played with Steve’s cock before he jerked him, every stroke of his hand enough to make Steve shudder and curse.

“Tony,” he’d said in a voice he didn’t recognize. A name, a plea, all in one. “Close the door.”

The second time, then, there’d been skin against skin; damp shirts stripped off and hands everywhere, Steve perched on the edge of Tony’s desk and Tony’s face pressed to the front of his trousers, breathing in the heat there, the sweat.

“Can I?” Tony’s eyes turned to his, Tony’s hands kneading at the insides of his thighs. “Steve, let me. Please.”

And if it stoked a different sort of heat in him to look down and see his cock buried in his boss’s mouth, to see the same hand that signed his paychecks busy flying over Tony’s long, pretty dick, then so be it.

After that, it’s a little more regular, but it stays on this side of routine. It happens sometimes and sometimes it doesn’t and it stays in the office, it does.

It doesn’t even occur to him to ask for something otherwise because what they have, what they lock to the door for, what they take the phone off the hook and do in the shadows of the everyday is so, so fucking good.

Until one night when Tony closes a case easy, when he’s been able to make a client happy with just a few phone calls and an out-of-state telefax. Steve pours him a five o’clock somewhere to celebrate. Pours one out for himself, too.

“This is my favorite kind of mook,” Tony says, pointing at the papers on his desk, the neat rows of receipts and photographs. “Greedy, weaselly, and stupid. Easiest little fuckers on the planet to track.”

Steve laughs around his rocks glass. “And dumb enough not to cover theirs, is that it?”

A smile, slow and smirking. “Exactly.”

The first kiss is like that too, slow, both of them feeling their oats, but then Steve gets impatient and nips at Tony’s lip and after that, all bets are off.

“Yeah?” Tony murmurs as Steve opens his trousers. “Is that what you want?”

“Inside me,” Steve says, the whiskey singing riots in his blood. “Please.”

He lays back on Tony’s desk, scattering all the nice piles, writhing when Tony’s Vaselined fingers press inside him.

“Touch yourself,” Tony says, and he does.

“Sit on my cock,” Tony says, and he does.

“Don’t stop,” Tony says, and he doesn't until Tony’s head falls back, his mouth open, his nails digging waves into the curve of Steve’s ass.

He brings himself off while Tony comes down, while Tony murmurs nonsense against his neck and strokes the arch of his back.

“So pretty,” Tony mumbles. “So pretty when you lose it like that, baby. Love watching your face.”

They stay like that a long time, crammed into Tony’s creaky chair, the room stinking of sex and good drink.

“One day,” Tony says finally, “you’re gonna let me have this in a nice big bed."

"I am, huh?"

"Yep. On a nice big mattress I can spread you out on. Sheets like silk, like clouds, maybe. Would you like that?”

Steve kisses the damp mess of Tony’s hair. “This is good.”

A chuckle. “I know it is. I’m saying I think it could be even better if there were soft surfaces involved. Something that didn’t pose the risk of splinters or us getting come on something that has to go in the mail.”

“Well--”

“Besides”--Tony's mouth on his jaw, a quick show of teeth--“I like the idea of you in my bed.”

Steve feels a flutter in his chest, an inconvenient bloom of feeling. There's such kindness in Tony’s voice, in the warm caramel feel of his body, that it unsettles him, rattles him, like a BB in an old coffee can. “You don’t owe me anything, Tony.”

“Mmmm. Same’s true of you.”

“Yeah?”

Tony pushes at him a little, gets him to sit up and lean back. “Yeah. Scout’s honor.” He reaches up and cups Steve’s cheek. “If this is what you want, then we’ll do this. Splinters be damned.” A smile, small and perfect in the gathering dark. “I want you to be happy, that’s all.”

He says it again when they're dressed and semi-presentable, standing at the door in the dark: “I want you to be happy, Steve.”

Steve keeps his hand on the doorknob. Is surprised to see it shaking. ”I know."

A pat on his back, oddly formal. “Ok.” Then a forced sort of cheeriness: “I’ll see you bright and early on Monday, all right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “See you then.”

He rides the train home with his thoughts running in circles, his heart drowning out the drunk at the end of the car, and before he hits his front door, he comes to grips with two things:

Sleeping with your boss is never smart. But having said boss fall in love with you while you’re doing it? Is two shakes from fucking insane.


End file.
